


The Vessels

by Magestorrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, also the return of #WhiteSuitSammy, and in which dean and cas argue over his body, in which the mechanics of the spn universe are slightly altered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-22 19:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magestorrow/pseuds/Magestorrow
Summary: When Dean Winchester is on his deathbed after being torn apart by hell hounds, a demon clearly masquerading as an angel appears and makes him an offer: become its new meat suit, and it will heal his injuries. But things don't go exactly as planned. Despite the assurances that they will share control, Dean wakes up six months later and discovers that the world thinks he's dead.And the world has changed greatly in time that he has been gone. Sam Winchester has fallen farther and farther out of touch with the hunters he and Dean once regularly chatted with. Angels have stepped into the playing field. And there are rumors that the Devil himself has managed to break free from his cage and walk the earth once more.As Dean finds himself unable to trust his brother more and more, the only alternative he has is to trust the demon/possible angel sharing his meat suit. Its name?Castiel.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester was about to go to Hell.

This day had been destined to happen for a year, and he had spent that year counting down to his final moments. He had known there was nothing he could do to fight it; that had been all of Sam's beliefs. But now that he could feel the hell hounds digging their claws into his skin and clothing as they tore him away from his brother, he suddenly wished more than ever before to remain alive. His sudden bout of struggling did little to help his situation. The hell hounds had likely dealt with worse before, and would likely deal with worse later. At least he could take some solace in the fact that he was going down the Winchester way: he wasn't going to die a coward. He would die fighting.

The hell hounds dragged him to the town's jail. Random facts begin to pop into his head as he tried to ignore the excruciating pain. They liked their symbolism. Whether it was a rule of Hell or just how things were, they would always bring their victims to someone symbolic of Hell. Claws mercilessly ripped apart skin and muscles as they dragged him into the nearest cell. He struggled to stay conscious; the ceiling was beginning to swim in his vision. His mind flashed back to his brother pressed up against that wall.

 _I'm sorry, Sammy,_ he thought. There was a bright flash of light in the distance, and the hell hounds howled and cowered as a figure clad in a trench coat quickly approached. Dean caught a glimpse of a face—young, male and surely demonic—before the pain simply became too much and the world began to flash from full color to complete darkness. 

Another flash of bright light. 

The hell hounds retreated, leaving only their victim as his newest captor crouched down before him. He felt a warm hand brush up against his forehead. “I will not harm you,” the voice said, and Dean wished he had the strength to shoot back a retort. Though the demon's voice was probably meant to come off as comforting, there was a tinge of worry to the man's voice.

“You were not supposed to be this injured,” the demon commented.

Dean just gave him a look as a cry of pain suddenly erupted from within. He could barely keep conscious now, but he knew he had to—he couldn't let this demon do whatever it wanted with his body. He opened his mouth to tell it exactly that, but couldn't find the strength to say the words.

The demon surveyed him. 

“I can save you,” it said. 

Dean wanted to laugh. Making deathbed deals with a demon was how he got into this mess in the first place; did this one think he was going to be stupid enough to complete the cycle? When a minuscule chuckle escaped him, cut short by another cry of pain, the demon stared at him with blue eyes that should have never looked so honest—so _human_.

“No,” he coughed out.

The demon's brow furrowed. Dean groaned, pain making his vision blurred and dark. “I need to,” it insisted. “It is my duty-”

“Who sent you?” Dean cut him off. He hated how weak his voice sounded. It was barely above a whisper, and he could just barely hold back another cry of pain. “Lilith?”

It stared at him blankly.

“I am not a demon,” it said. The meat suit and the desperate deal-making said otherwise, but Dean didn't have the strength or time to argue. “I am an angel of the lord.” 

That, admittedly, wasn't what he had expected, but he believed that in this guy being an angel as he believed in the tooth fairy existing. Dean tried to scoot back or sit up so he looked he presented some kind of a threat, but the purported angel kept its hand on his forehead. “So what's your deal, then?” he questioned. His words were a jumbled and mumbled mess; he was astonished when the demon seemed to understand what he was trying to ask. 

“You would become my new vessel,” the demon said, and Dean promptly spit up a good chunk of blood in its emotionless face. If he hadn't been dying and horrified by the offer, he might have gotten a kick out of the way it slowly raised its free hand up to wipe off some of the blood. “I would be able to heal your body, and Lilith would never dare to send another hell hound after you.”

There was a pause.

“You would be able to see your brother again-”

“And I would be your meat suit?”

Another blank look. “I do not know what that is,” the demon informed him, and its ignorance made him want to laugh again. “But I would treat you well, as I do with all of my vessels. Once your body is healed and Lilith has been dealt with, then I will return to my current vessel. I just need your permission.”

“No,” Dean declared with another cough.

“No?” the demon repeated, tilting its head ever so slightly to the side. Now the room was getting _really dark_ ; Dean hadn't known that feeling so much pain was possible. But if he wanted to finish this conversation before he kicked the bucket, he would have to hold out for just a bit longer. 

“No,” Dean repeated. “I'm not going...I'm not going to be your meat suit, and I'm not going to let you run around with my face. If I don't have control of my body, I'm better off dead than alive.”

The demon's expressionless face set its lips into a frown. 

Dean was surely about to kick the bucket when it suddenly spoke once more, removing its hand from its forehead as it looked him right in the eyes. “Then we can both be in control,” the demon said. He knew he shouldn't be listening to a monster, but there was something about the way that it spoke that made Dean want to trust it. “It will be difficult, and has not been done for a long time, but it should be possible.”

He thought for a moment. He would have likely given it much more thought, but time was something he didn't have. Thinking of his brother, of Bobby, of Jo, of Ellen and of everyone else he cared about and wanted to see again, he knew exactly what he had to say.

“I'll do it,” he said.

A ghost of a smile danced across the demon's lips.

“Say yes, and you will be my vessel,” it said.

“Yes.”

And that was when Dean went unconscious. 

**xXx**

When Dean next came to, he was slumped across the ground in the midst of the forest. His clothes were somehow fixed and covered in a very thin layer of grime—likely from the dirt he was laying in—and he felt surprising whole again. He propped himself against the wooden marker behind him and surveyed the area. The woods were entirely unfamiliar; for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where he was.

For someone who had promised to split control with him, the demon was surprisingly silent. Dean wondered if it had all been a bad dream. He certainly had enough of them about the hell hounds dragging him to hell, and that wouldn't have been the most bizarre of them. But then he turned to read what was on the wooden marker in the hopes that it would give him a clue, and he found himself staring at his own grave.

“Dean Winchester,” the grave read, undoubtedly carved by Sam. All Dean could do was stare at his name for the first minute, then curse and swear so loud that it startled several birds out from the trees they were nesting in. The demon had promised to heal him, but it had never said anything about Sam thinking he was dead!

He got to his feet. His phone was gone. It must have fallen out in the struggle against the hell hounds. Money and a car were also going to be an issue. _Damn it,_ he thought. _Why did I think trusting that demon was a good idea!?_

Thankfully, it was easy to determine a path out of the woods. He eventually found an abandoned gas station a short distance away, and he began to frantically raid it. He grabbed food. He grabbed cash from the register. And while he was about to stuff his discoveries in the first plastic bag he found hidden in the corner of the room, he began to hear a white noise in the back of his mind.

He stopped.

It wasn't making any words yet, but he could do the math. His face set into a furious look, and he wished he could glare at it like he wanted to. Instead he had to stick with glaring at his reflection in the nearest window, and something was definitely lost with that. “Why did you let Sam think I was dead?” he demanded. Crossing his arms and tapping his foot against the ground, he waited for a response.

 _He would have tried to kill you,_ it finally said. It was trying to take control of his mouth—weakly—but he ignored how his mouth was trying to move in ways that he didn't want it to. _He would have thought that I was a demon, or some other creature. Your body was already severely damaged. It took me a great amount of time to heal it, and-_

“How much time?”

The demon was silent.

“How much time?” he hissed. 

The demon, at least, had the intelligence to sound guilty and hesitant when it replied. _Six months,_ it admitted. _You were in a coma for the entirety of it. I did try to rouse you, but you only awoke when I brought us to your grave-_

“You let everyone think I was dead for _six months_?” he yelled, anger bubbling up from within. The demon recoiled in his mind. Good. He wanted it to know just how furious he was. “I should have known there would be something written in the smaller font!” 

When the demon wisely stayed silent, Dean threw his finds into the bag and stormed out of the building. There was a car nearby. Like the gas station, it also seemed abandoned: he easily broke into it and stole it. The demon didn't seem to like this decision much. He could hear it trying to argue with him about it in the back of his mind, but he didn't bother to listen. He just turned the key that had stupidly been left in the ignition and started heading to the first place he could think of.

He needed to see Bobby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, updating a dead fic? It's more likely than you think.

The demon was saying this was a bad idea. It probably was, knowing the amount of protections that Bobby had set up around his house. And if he knew Bobby as well as he thought he did, his first plan of action when he saw the supposedly deceased Dean Winchester on his doorstep would be to test for demons. Test for the black eyes, throw some holy water on him, even get him to walk through a pentacle just to be especially safe. Seeing that he was technically housing a demon in his meat suit, he wasn't exactly sure how he was going to get around _that_. 

The stolen car pulled up in front of the house. The demon had gone silent once more, likely frustrated that things weren't going as it had planned. Dean briefly wondered why it hadn't seized control yet, but he wasn't going to kick a gift horse in the mouth. He was, however, going to remain in the car and stare at the house until he came up with a decent game plan. He didn't even want to trust the demon after what it had pulled, so how was he supposed to convince Bobby to trust it, too?

There was movement in one of the windows.

Dean took a deep breath. He had no plan, but improvisation had always been something that the Winchesters excelled at. He emerged from the car. Slowly walking up to the house, he desperately hoped he'd come up with what to do by the time that Bobby opened the door.

The door creaked.

Bobby was standing before him.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Bobby,” he hurriedly said, noting how Bobby was holding something behind his back. A weapon, undoubtedly. But even if it was something not meant to work against demons, it would likely hurt like hell. “It's me, Dean.”

Bobby just narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

The glint of the silver knife processed the moment Bobby lunged. But Dean was already prepared for an attack, and he went to dodge and disarm him-

The demon resisted. 

The knife went right into his chest, going through cloth and skin. Pain blossomed from the injury. He staggered back, hands reaching up to touch the injury. When he drew his hands away, they weren't coated in blood. They weren't coated in anything, for that matter. The only indicator of him having been slashed was the cut in his shirt.

“What the Hell?” he hissed. Bobby was moving back inside now, going to slam the door behind him as he hurried to grab his arsenal of weapons. Dean stuck his foot in between the door and the frame. “Now he knows you're in my meat suit-”

His jaw suddenly clamped shut, and his face took on a neutral expression. “You can trust me, Robert Singer,” the demon said. It was downright disturbing to hear his own voice say words he would never say in a tone he would never use.

“Oh, yes,” Dean angrily retorted, wrestling back control of his mouth. “He'll definitely trust you when you don't bleed, and when you're walking around with the face of the hunter who was supposed to be dead for the last six months!”

“It was necessary,” the demon said.

“Necessary my ass!” he shouted back. He slammed the door behind him, and look for the nearest reflective surface to glare at so the demon got the message. “Now Bobby is going to get holy water and shit ton of guns, and it's going to hurt like a bitch-”

As if to prove his point, Bobby suddenly reemerged from the nearest room and chucked a cup of holy water in his face. But instead of hurting like he had imagined it would, he just felt wet. And weirdly...reinvigorated. He slowly raised a hand up to wipe away the water off of his face. When he drew it away, his hand didn't hurt. It felt just like it should have if he wasn't housing a demon in his body.

Bobby stared at him.

“I am an angel of the lord,” the...thing said. Dean still didn't want to believe in something that had never been there for him, but then an enormous pair of shadowy wings unfolded from his back. Dean turned his head around and stared at his new appendages. They didn't feel like wings should have felt like, exactly, but something told him that they could become solid in an instant.

The wings folded back and disappeared.

He turned around to look at Bobby. Unsurprisingly, the hunter's eyes had widened considerably. His jaw had even dropped a bit, which Dean probably would have replicated if it wasn't for the fact that he had just lost control of his mouth again. “My name is Castiel. Dean is my temporary vessel.” 

Bobby watched and studied him for a moment.

The weapons were gently placed down on the nearest piece of furniture, and a second later he found himself been enveloped in a hug by the older hunter. Castiel seemed more than a little uncomfortable, but Dean gladly kept the hug going for as long as he could. He had been so certain that he would never see Bobby again; now things were back to how they should have been, and he was never going to let go.

Castiel pulled them out of the embrace.

“You're still in there, aren't you, Dean?” Bobby asked. “I heard you arguing in the hallway when I went to go my weapons.”

“I am,” he confirmed. 

Bobby gestured for him to follow him into the study. He wasted no time in doing as requested. He never knew how _safe_ he felt in that room until now. “So an angel brought you back to hell to use you as his meat suit?”

“Not exactly,” Dean said, just as Castiel went to shake his head. He really didn't like the angel doing things like that when he was having a conversation, but he frustratingly realized that this was what he had signed up for. “I never died, Bobby. Castiel showed up right before I was about to kick the bucket, and offered to heal me by using me as his vessel. But, apparently, that involves pretending to be dead for six months.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

Then the angel decided to speak.

“Samuel-”

“Sam,” Dean corrected.

“Sam,” Castiel repeated, a tinge of what suspiciously sounded like annoyance to Dean's voice when he hijacked control of his mouth again, “could not know.”

“He's my brother!”

Castiel took a barely noticeable deep breath. He doubted he would have noticed if they weren't in the same body. Lingering by the table, the angel quietly replied, “Your brother spent the first two months following your death in the company of a demon you might know as Ruby. She coerced him into drinking blood under the guise of giving him strength—in actuality, she was preparing him to become the vessel of Lucifer-”

“Lucifer?” Bobby repeated. “I thought he was only a bedtime story for demons.” 

Castiel gave him a blank look.

“Lucifer is not a story,” the angel said. Dean fidgeted; he didn't like the way this conversation was going. “He is very much alive. He was simply sealed away in the darkest corners of Hell. To most, he was just a story, though the more powerful among the demons knew the truth. Lilith and Ruby were some of them.”

Dean willed his body to lean up against Bobby's desk. Castiel only resisted for the shortest of moments – he understood the unspoken message that Dean deserved that much while Castiel controlled his mouth. And when he felt a tinge of irritation on the angel's part, Dean felt smugness on his own. 

“You said 'was' like he got out,” Bobby accused him.

Castiel didn't miss a beat.

“He did,” he confirmed, “and he took his vessel.”


End file.
